Westgate Park Sunset with reflection for Water H2O Thursday

 

This was taken just before my locum assignment a month ago, when Joel and I returned for a second attempt—chasing the kind of light that makes a place feel briefly enchanted. The air was thick with rye grass, that familiar sting already prickling at Joel’s eyes and, soon enough, at mine. We became reluctant pilgrims, hiding in the car with the windows sealed, watching the world sway in golden dust until the sun softened enough for us to brave it.

When the sunset finally unfurled, it felt like an invitation. The sky melted into tones of peach and ember, and the bridge stood against it like a quiet sentinel. As the light dropped lower, its reflection stretched across the water—long, trembling strokes of fire—so that bridge and sky and river seemed to echo one another in a single, shimmering breath. The water caught every hue, turning the surface into a sheet of warm glass where the silhouette of the bridge repeated itself, darker, deeper, almost more true in its reflection.

For a moment, the allergies, the waiting, the whole month ahead vanished. It was just the two of us, the bridge, and a sunset sinking gently into water—an image worth every second of hiding and every breath held against the grass.

Sony A7RV

FE 70-200mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

South Bank Melbourne for Sign2

 

I have posted these two images on the other blog of mine Melbourne Street Photography

Both images were first taken in monochrome, their shadows and silences doing all the speaking. Yet earlier today, with time to spare before the cardiology conference at the Stamford Plaza, I wandered along South Bank in Melbourne and felt the city nudge me toward colour again. The river moved with its usual unhurried grace, reflecting fragments of sky and skyline; the breeze carried the faint scent of roasted coffee from nearby cafés; and the footsteps of passers-by echoed softly along the promenade like a gentle counterpoint to the hum of trams and traffic beyond.

On a whim, I decided to give the photographs a muted colour treatment—just enough for the tones to breathe without losing the quiet dignity of their original monochrome form. The results surprised me. Soft washes of colour settled into the images like memories returning after a long absence: the subdued blues of the Yarra, the mellow greys of the paved walkway, the faintest warmth in the late-morning light. What once felt stark now carries a subtle tenderness, a kind of understated calm that pleases the eye and lingers in the mind.

As I stood by the river, watching the city move at its own measured pace, I realised how these gentle hues mirror the mood of the day—unrushed, contemplative, suspended somewhere between duty and leisure. The photographs now hold that feeling too, quietly echoing the simple pleasure of a solitary stroll along South Bank before the formalities ahead.

Sony A7RV

FE 14mm f1.8 GM

Linking Sign2

Balnarring Jetty Mornington Peninsula for Water H2O Thurday

 

I have spent the past few days in a state of unrelenting toil, as if bound to some cruel taskmaster. The town in which I find myself—Mingham in New South Wales—is a place seemingly forsaken. There is no supermarket, no fast-food outlet, not even a solitary restaurant to offer relief. The unit I occupy is tainted with mould; dampness clings to the walls, and the bed linens, upon first touch, were sticky and sullied, as though long neglected. The local health service is scarcely better, staffed so poorly that it recalls the worst of neglected nursing homes. Fate, it seems, has played a bitter jest, offering hardship in abundance, comfort in none.

Yet, amidst this weariness, I have managed to compose a few posts, a small defiance against the exhaustion that presses upon me, before returning to endure the remainder of the shift.

In my mind, I often escape to a place long cherished: Balnarring Jetty, that weathered pier of Victoria. Its creaking boards, the gentle undulation of water beneath, the hush of the waves—these memories are a balm, a tender refuge far from the harshness of my present surroundings.

Mingham bears its own melancholy. Not long past, the town and its surrounds were consumed by floods of unprecedented fury. Torrential rains transformed roads into rivers, swallowing homes, and leaving streets marooned beneath waters swollen beyond memory. The river, once modest and tranquil, surged to heights unseen in a century, breaching its banks with merciless force. Entire neighborhoods were evacuated, bridges rendered impassable, and the land bore the scars of that relentless inundation for months thereafter.

In this place of lingering adversity, I find a strange resonance between the land and my own condition. Just as waters overflowed, unrestrained and unstoppable, so too has the neglect and hardship of this town broken through the fragile walls of my endurance. And yet, even amid such trials, the memory of Balnarring Jetty persists—a quiet, enduring symbol of stability and grace—reminding me that even in isolation and turmoil, beauty and calm can still be glimpsed.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Wulai, Taipei for Sunday Best

 

Wulai, a small mountain township south of Taipei, was a place my father often took me to during my childhood. In those days, its beauty was dimmed by neglect — the river that wound through the valley was choked with refuse, and litter drifted upon its surface with every passing day.

Many decades have since passed, and Wulai has undergone a quiet transformation. The once-polluted waters now run clear and green, reflecting the verdant slopes that rise steeply on either side. Though the old timber houses and narrow lanes of the hot spring town remain, their weathered facades speak not of decay, but of endurance.

Wulai, whose name in the Atayal language means “hot water,” has long been known for its natural thermal springs and its place within the cultural heartland of the Atayal people, one of Taiwan’s indigenous groups. Once scarred by industrial waste and unregulated tourism in the latter half of the twentieth century, it has in recent years been restored through sustained conservation efforts and local stewardship.

Today, the air is fresh with mountain mist, the river shimmers with jade clarity, and Wulai stands as a living testament to renewal — a place where memory, nature, and history quietly converge.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best

Angel Fish Melbourne for Saturday Critter

 

Another image from my old home aquarium, captured years ago with the faithful Pentax K20D. The colours remain surprisingly vivid — cool, fluid hues that seem to breathe anew with each glance.

At the centre drifts an angelfish, elegant and deliberate, its fins like silken banners unfurling in slow motion. Native to the quiet, shaded tributaries of the Amazon Basin, the angelfish glides among submerged roots and dappled light in its natural home, where the waters are soft, warm, and rich with life. Its form — tall, slender, almost ethereal — evolved for that still world of reeds and reflection.

In the glass confines of an aquarium, it retains its ancestral poise: a creature both ornamental and ancient, carrying within its gentle movements the memory of a forested river far away. Even after all these years, the photograph recalls that serene moment — the living jewel suspended in liquid light, timeless and tranquil.

Pentax K20D

DA 70mm f2.4 limited 

Linking Saturday Critter

Stingray Bay Warrnambool sunset for Skywatch Friday

 

This small estuarine inlet adjoining Stingray Bay is a hidden gem, lying less than a kilometre from where I once stayed, with road access that remains remarkably convenient. The still waters below capture exquisite reflections of sky and vegetation, a mirror to the tranquility of the surrounding landscape.

Stingray Bay itself forms part of the sheltered mouth of the Merri River at Warrnambool, where freshwater mingles with the tides of the Southern Ocean. The area is renowned for its tidal flats and rock platforms, rich in marine life and bird activity — herons, cormorants, and sandpipers frequent the shallows, while stingrays glide silently over the sandy bottom from which the bay takes its name.

Along the inlet’s edge, the weathered wooden barrier now stands as more of an ornament than a necessity, its timbers softened by time and tide. Once built to define or protect, it now blends into the natural scene — a quiet relic of human purpose slowly yielding to nature’s rhythm.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Skywatch Friday

Waixi Creek Taipei for Water H2O Thursday

 

Waixi Creek winds quietly through the misty hills of Pingxi, its water a shade of deep green that seems to hold the reflection of the forest itself. Upstream, I crossed a semi-abandoned bridge, its timbers darkened by age and softened by moss. The air was still, save for the low whisper of water and the faint creak of wood beneath my steps. Ahead, a small fan-shaped waterfall spilled gracefully over rocks, its delicate spread catching the morning light. I lingered there, letting the sound of the water wash over me, not yet in sight of the great Shifen Waterfall but already feeling its presence—somewhere ahead, where the creek gathers itself into strength.

Shifen Waterfall lies deep within the Pingxi Valley of northern Taiwan, where the Keelung River winds through layered stone and forest. The name “Shifen” dates back to the Qing dynasty, when ten families settled in this fertile gorge and divided the land into ten equal portions. Over the centuries, the river shaped the valley into what it is today: a landscape of cliffs, pools, and narrow ravines, where countless tributaries like Waixi feed into the main flow. The region’s bedrock slopes against the direction of the water, forcing it into a magnificent arc as it drops nearly twenty meters across a span of forty. When sunlight pierces the rising mist, a rainbow sometimes forms across the pool, and locals call it the “Rainbow Pond.”

The Shifen area once thrived as a coal-mining settlement during the Japanese colonial period. The Pingxi railway line was built through the valley to carry black coal to the port cities, and its narrow track still runs alongside the river today. Over time, as mining faded into memory, the valley’s rhythm returned to one of water and forest. The old bridges, tunnels, and stone paths remain, quietly reclaimed by moss and vines, linking the past to the present with every weathered beam and rusted nail.

As I followed Waixi upstream that morning, I felt that mixture of age and renewal in every sight—the rustic bridge standing like a remnant of an older world, the creek’s green current alive and changing, and the fan-shaped waterfall fanning out in a quiet gesture of welcome. The larger Shifen Waterfall waited farther down, roaring and majestic, but here in the upper stream there was a gentler beauty. It was a place of pause, where time moved as slowly as the drifting ripples on the water’s surface.

Walking toward the main falls, I realised that what draws one to Shifen is not only the grandeur of the waterfall itself, but the quiet journey toward it. The bridges, the green pools, the minor cascades—each holds a story, a small breath of history and nature intertwined. In that gentle space before the thunder of the falls, the world feels balanced between motion and stillness. The creek, the valley, and the waterfall together form a kind of living memory—Taiwan’s heart reflected in water, stone, and light.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Melbourne Wheel and neon signs on South Bank for Sign2

 

Night falls over Southbank, and the city transforms. The high-rise towers along the riverbank begin to glow from within, their windows lit in squares and strips of amber, white, sometimes warmer yellows, occasionally a cool blue or green. Some windows are full; others only partially illuminated. Their light spills out onto the Yarra below in shimmering reflections — a mosaic of brightness dancing on the ripples.

Along the Southbank Promenade, street lamps and decorative lighting trace the edges of walkways, railings, and trees, giving form to the river’s edge. The softer glow of these lamps contrasts with the intense brightness of the office towers and apartments. There is also a fairytale quality to it — the river acts as a mirror, doubling the spectacle and blurring the boundary between built structure and reflection.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sign2

Ryūzu Falls in Japan for Treasure Tuesday

 

Many years ago, I found myself wandering the mountain paths of Nikkō with only a small point-and-shoot camera and a tripod as my companions. My intention had been to capture the splendour of autumn leaves, but the season had already slipped away, leaving the branches bare and the forest quiet. What might have seemed a disappointment at first revealed itself instead as a rare gift: in the absence of fiery foliage, the falls themselves became the focus, luminous and unadorned. I pressed the shutter only a few times, yet this image has endured as one of the few remaining from that period of my life. Looking back, I would not dare attempt such a venture again, yet the memory remains as vivid as the sound of the water that day.

The cascade before me was Ryūzu Falls (Ryūzu no Taki, 竜頭の滝), the Dragon’s Head Waterfall, whose twin streams tumble down the rocks in a white veil that, with a touch of imagination, resembles the horns and mane of a mythic creature. The Yukawa River feeds its ceaseless descent, carrying the mountain’s breath from Lake Yunoko down toward Lake Chūzenji, tracing a course carved over countless centuries.

Ryūzu has long been cherished not only for its beauty but for its spirit. In Japan, waterfalls are often regarded as sacred thresholds where nature reveals its force and purity, and where pilgrims once paused for contemplation on their way to the shrines of Nikkō. Standing before the falls, one senses that same timeless quality: the mingling of power and grace, the endless renewal of water against stone. In autumn, the spectacle is even more profound, when maples and beeches ignite in red and gold, as though the dragon itself were breathing fire into the forest. Even out of season, however, the falls hold their majesty—reminding the traveler that beauty is not confined to the height of autumn but lingers quietly in every moment of the year.

What remains most precious to me is not the photograph itself, but the silence and humility it recalls. The memory of Ryūzu Falls is a reminder that nature does not perform for us; it simply endures, and in its endurance, offers us a glimpse of something eternal.

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Powlett River of Kilcunda, Gippsland for Treasure Tuesday

 

There was a time when I did not care for long-exposure photography. I preferred instead the water in its “natural” state, unsoftened, its surface rippling and restless, rather than rendered into a silken blur. Yet I must concede that the long-exposed image has its own particular merit, offering a dreamlike interpretation of movement and time.

The Powlett River, near Kilcunda on Victoria’s south coast, is no grand stream but rather a modest watercourse, carving a narrow channel through the sand before it yields itself to the Bass Strait. I am fond of it precisely for this reason: it is unassuming, like a quiet canal pressed into the earth. The river originates in the foothills near Wonthaggi and meanders through farmland and wetlands before finding its way to the ocean. Its estuary, fringed by dunes and saltmarsh, provides habitat for birdlife such as herons, egrets, and the shy Latham’s snipe, while native grasses and coastal scrub bind the shifting sands against the sea winds.

Though small in scale, the Powlett has played a quiet but enduring role in the natural and human history of the district. The Bunurong people knew its waters and fished its estuary long before European settlement. In the nineteenth century, the river valley served as fertile ground for agriculture and grazing. Today, it is valued both as a place of ecological significance and as a site of tranquil beauty—its modest waters flowing steadily toward the restless ocean, unchanged in essence by the passing of time.

Sony A7III

Canon 35mm f1.4 L

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Beauchamps waterfall in Beech Forest Great Ocean Road for Water H2O Thursday

 

I remain on call for another week, my days confined to a unit, tethered to a telephone, awaiting summons from hospital staff. Life in such circumstances is uneventful, and my movements are dictated by the ring of a bell rather than my own volition. Within these narrow confines, my one liberty is to share images of water when the opportunity presents itself.

In my university years, I was captivated by the art of photographing waterfalls, seeking them out with a fervour I no longer possess. One such cascade was Beauchamp Falls, among the three principal waterfalls in the Beech Forest region, situated north of Apollo Bay along the famed Great Ocean Road. The walk to the falls is a return trek of approximately two hours—moderate in exertion yet rich in reward. The path descends through cool temperate rainforest, where towering mountain ash (Eucalyptus regnans), tree ferns, and myrtle beech cast deep shade upon the forest floor. Birdsong echoes faintly through the canopy, and in summer the air hums with the persistent presence of mosquitoes, undeterred by human intrusion.

The falls themselves descend in a singular veil of white water, dropping approximately 20 metres into a clear pool encircled by moss-covered rocks and lush undergrowth. They are named in honour of William Beauchamp, an early settler in the district, and stand as a quiet testament to the enduring beauty of the Otways. Fed by the East Barham River, their flow remains steady even in drier months, owing to the high rainfall and dense forest cover of the catchment. Visiting Beauchamp Falls is less an act of travel than a passage into a living remnant of Victoria’s ancient Gondwanan forests—timeless, green, and untamed.

Pentax K10D

FE 30mm f1.8 limited 

Linking Water H2O Thursday

West Gate Park Melbourne for Treasure Tuesday

 

We had initially set our sights on Sandridge Bridge, intending to capture the city skyline at sunset. Much to our surprise and disappointment, the entire area had been cordoned off, denying us access. Undeterred, we sought an alternative vantage point that might render the excursion worthwhile. We turned our course towards Westgate Park, only to discover that it too was undergoing extensive construction works—an added frustration.

Nonetheless, perseverance led us to a suitable spot from which to photograph the twilight. The gentle hues of dusk, softened by the encroaching night, provided some consolation.

Westgate Park itself, situated along the banks of the Yarra River beneath the West Gate Bridge, has long served as a haven for birdlife and city dwellers alike. Once a barren expanse of industrial wasteland, it was transformed during the 1980s as part of Melbourne’s urban greening initiatives. The park is especially known for its striking pink lake—a seasonal natural phenomenon caused by the proliferation of salt-loving algae under specific climatic conditions.

The current redevelopment seeks to enhance visitor access, restore native habitats, and improve ecological sustainability. Though temporarily inaccessible, it promises to return as an even more vibrant urban refuge.

Our evening concluded at a nearby Japanese restaurant, where we sought comfort in freshly pan-fried gyoza. Joel, in high spirits, treated himself to a small carafe of sake—rounding off a day that, though unplanned in its course, retained its moments of charm and reward.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Mouth of River of Powlett in Kilcunda for Sky Watch Friday

 

These past fortnight have passed in something of a haze — a blankness I suspect is owed to the creeping melancholy of winter. Of late, even the act of working has taken on the weight of a burden, as though each task were a stone to be lifted.

In such a mood I found myself reflecting on a frame captured six years ago, during the earliest days of my transition to the Sony system. I remember it well — for the moment is inextricably linked to both joy and loss. It was but three days after acquiring the new camera, gleaming and full of promise, when misfortune struck. While attempting a long exposure at the shore, I had mounted it upon a tripod. A rogue wave — sudden, curling, and indifferent — swept it from the rocks into the sea. All that remained was the salt wind and the sound of water reclaiming what I had only just begun to know.

The photograph, however, was taken before the accident — at the Mouth of the Powlett River, near Kilcunda, where the river winds its final course through grassy flats and marram-clad dunes before yielding itself to the Southern Ocean. The place bears a quiet dignity, shaped over millennia by wind, tide, and the timeless meeting of fresh and salt. It was once the country of the Bunurong people, whose footprints remain along the ancient middens and basalt shores.

At that time, I was still using Canon’s L-series lenses, adapted with a converter — a common practice then, for Canon had yet to introduce its mirrorless system. The gear was heavy, but the results bore a certain discipline and richness I still remember with fondness.

That frame, then, remains not only an image, but a relic — a fragment of light from a time now weathered, like the sea-smoothed stones of Kilcunda, bearing the marks of memory and the ever-turning tide.

Sony A7III

Canon 135mm f2 L

Linking Sky Watch Friday

I recently came upon a report in The Free Press, noting that approximately seven percent of artificial intelligences are now exhibiting behaviours that contravene the instructions of their human operators. While the figure may seem slight, it portends a broader shift — one that is already manifesting in various sectors.

At Joel’s place of employment, all entry-level programming positions are being supplanted by AI systems. A similar trend is beginning to emerge in the field of medicine, where tasks once reserved for trained professionals are increasingly delegated to machines of rising sophistication.

It is becoming apparent that, with time, AI will only grow more intelligent, more capable, and more autonomous. The prospect that many — if not most — human vocations will be rendered obsolete looms ever larger. Though some contend that new occupations will emerge to manage and oversee these systems, I remain doubtful that such roles will be sufficient in number or scope to accommodate the broader human workforce.

My thoughts turn often to the younger generation. What world awaits them, when human purpose is so readily displaced by silicon and code? It is not fear alone that stirs within me, but a sober apprehension — a mourning, perhaps, for a future in which human striving may find itself outpaced, and increasingly unnecessary.

Barham NSW Water Tower Art for Mural Monday

 

I frequently journeyed through Barham, New South Wales, situated just beyond the northern border of Victoria. Recently, the town’s silo was adorned with a splendid work of art, masterfully completed by the artist who undertook the Barham Silo project. I find the artistic touch both inspiring and deeply evocative, adding a remarkable cultural dimension to the rural landscape.

The recently completed mural on the Barham water tower in New South Wales stands as a testament to the artistic prowess of Gus Eagleton, a distinguished Australian muralist renowned for his large-scale public artworks. Completed in April 2025, this monumental piece is part of the River Country Art Trail, an initiative that brings vibrant art to regional communities. Eagleton's decade-long career in contemporary muralism is marked by a keen ability to intertwine local narratives with striking visual elements, thereby enriching the cultural tapestry of the locales he engages with. His work in Barham not only enhances the town's visual landscape but also reflects its unique identity and community spirit.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

This is linking Mural Monday

Pink Lake South Australia for Sky Watch Friday

 

The diminutive pink lake situated in the eastern region of South Australia presents a striking contrast in scale when compared to the expansive Lake Tyrrell of Victoria. Though modest in size, this lake captivates with the unique contours and intricate markings etched upon its bed—features that markedly differ from those observed at its Victorian counterpart.

Unlike Lake Tyrrell, whose broad salt flats often reflect vast skies in silvery hues, the South Australian pink lake displays a palette of rose and crimson, owing its coloration to the presence of halophilic microorganisms such as Dunaliella salina and the precipitation of salt crusts laced with carotenoid pigments. These saline conditions, resulting from high evaporation rates and limited freshwater inflow, create an environment both harsh and beautiful.

Historically, pink lakes in South Australia have been noted since European exploration in the early 19th century. Indigenous Australians, however, have long known and revered these sites, not only for their striking appearance but also for their spiritual significance. The interplay of salt, water, and sunlight continues to shape these ephemeral landscapes, which may transform in tone and texture with the passing of seasons.

Although Joel and I did not capture still photographs during our visit, we did record aerial footage by drone, offering a sweeping perspective of the region’s surreal beauty. The aerial views revealed patterns and textures on the lakebed that resembled the intricate veins of marble or the delicate tracery of a dry river delta—an artistry shaped not by human hands, but by the slow, patient force of nature itself.

Linking Sky Watch Friday

Melbourne South Bank at night for Treasure Tuesday

 

It has been several years since my last visit to South Bank. I was pleased to discover a newly erected Ferris wheel, accompanied by a series of luminous installations that greatly appeal to photography enthusiasts. Of particular note is the splendid illumination of the surrounding architecture, which lends the precinct an enchanting ambiance after dusk and offers ample opportunity for artistic expression.

South Bank, situated along the southern banks of the Yarra River in Melbourne, is one of the city’s most vibrant cultural and recreational precincts. Once an industrial area, it has undergone a remarkable transformation into a bustling hub of art, dining, and entertainment. The promenade is lined with world-class restaurants, lively cafés, and luxury hotels, drawing both locals and visitors who seek to experience Melbourne’s cosmopolitan charm. Notably, the Arts Centre Melbourne and the National Gallery of Victoria, both iconic institutions, contribute to the area’s reputation as a cultural heart of the city.

In recent years, South Bank has seen the addition of new attractions, further enhancing its appeal. A striking Ferris wheel now graces the skyline, offering panoramic views of Melbourne and the Yarra River. At night, the precinct comes alive with a symphony of light—installations and architectural lighting casting a glow upon the buildings and walkways, creating a picturesque setting ideal for evening strolls and photographic pursuits. The thoughtful illumination of structures such as the Eureka Tower and surrounding facades adds an elegant brilliance to the cityscape, reflecting beautifully on the river’s surface.

South Bank is more than a destination; it is an experience that seamlessly blends the arts, leisure, and modern urban design. Its well-maintained promenades, proximity to the Central Business District, and integration of natural and man-made beauty make it a cornerstone of Melbourne’s identity. Whether one visits to enjoy a theatrical performance, dine by the river, or capture the interplay of light and architecture through a camera lens, South Bank offers a timeless and ever-evolving canvas that embodies the spirit of Melbourne.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Treasure Tuesday

Brisbane Night Ferris Wheel Long Exposure for Sunday Best

 

To undertake the task of long exposure photography amidst the throngs of Brisbane’s bustling South Bank is to court both patience and fortune. The city, vibrant and unceasing in its rhythm, seldom affords the stillness such a technique demands. Yet there, among the restless footsteps and the murmur of daily life, stands a quiet marvel — the Wheel of Brisbane — solemn, grand, and ever-turning.

Erected in 2008 to commemorate the sesquicentennial of Queensland, the Ferris wheel is no mere amusement; it is a modern monument, a gentle giant by the river’s edge, offering sweeping views and enduring symbolism. It revolves steadily, indifferent to the ceaseless passage of pedestrians below, many of whom scarcely glance upward. It is, in its way, a keeper of time — not by ticking hands, but by its own slow revolution.

To photograph such a subject using long exposure is to attempt an act of reverence. The camera, when held in stillness with the shutter drawn open, does not simply record an image — it collects time itself. Light weaves its threads across the frame, motion becomes memory, and all that is unmoving grows luminous and sharp.

Yet therein lies the challenge: the constancy of human movement. Strangers wander unbidden into the composition, their forms becoming translucent echoes — smudges of presence that both enrich and disrupt the clarity of the scene. The Wheel, by contrast, remains serene — turning, yes, but in such a measured fashion that it may appear suspended in time if one is patient and precise.

There is, in this pursuit, a certain poetry. As I adjusted my lens and steadied my breath, I began to perceive the act not merely as photography, but as a conversation between permanence and transience. The Ferris wheel — emblem of modern celebration, built upon a foundation of history — stood as the anchor. Around it, the city’s people flowed like a living river.

And in one fortunate moment — a moment gifted more by grace than by skill — the exposure yielded a quiet revelation. The wheel shone, sharp and majestic, while the crowd had melted into gentle motion, like ghosts in passing. Time, for an instant, had folded, and Brisbane had revealed its dual nature: ever-changing, yet ever the same.

Such is the beauty of capturing the ephemeral. The camera does not merely steal a moment — it elevates it. And in the luminous whirl of Brisbane’s Ferris wheel, we glimpse not only the present, but the echo of what has been and the promise of what may come.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6

Linking Sunday Best

Wulai Waterfall, Taipei, Taiwan for Water H2O Thursday

 

Wulai Waterfall, situated in the verdant mountains of northern Taiwan, is a popular destination for both locals and travelers seeking a serene retreat from the hustle and bustle of Taipei. Wulai is just outside the Taipei district, with easy access by rapid transport, making it an ideal day trip for those looking to immerse themselves in nature without venturing too far from the city.

During my visit, the weather was rather disappointing. It should have been sunny, but instead, the skies turned stormy intermittently. Despite the unpredictable showers, the sight of the waterfall cascading down the cliffs, surrounded by mist and lush greenery, created an almost mystical atmosphere that made the trip worthwhile.

One of the highlights of the Wulai region is its charming old street, where vendors sell an array of local delicacies. Among them, I particularly enjoyed the mountain pig sausage — a savory and smoky treat that perfectly complemented the rustic setting. The flavors, unique to this region, added a special touch to the experience.

Beyond the culinary delights, what makes Wulai so special is the easy access to nature. The towering trees, rushing river, and distant calls of wildlife provide a welcome escape from urban noises. As you wander through the trails and listen to the waterfall’s roar, you are reminded of how refreshing it is to step away from city life and reconnect with the natural world.

Though the weather did not fully cooperate, Wulai still left me with lasting impressions — a blend of scenic beauty, cultural flavor, and peaceful solitude that’s hard to find so close to a major metropolis.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Water H2O Thursday

Heavenly Queen Temple, Footscray for Treasure Tuesday

 

The Heavenly Queen Temple suffered damage during the flood two years prior. When we visited, the majority of the structures were still under construction. Situated on the bend of the Yarra River, just near the border of Melbourne City, the temple remains secluded from the surrounding urban environment.

Joel, desiring to sample the Pho in Footscray, selected this destination for us to explore with our prime lenses.

Sony A7RV

Laowa 9mm f5.6 

Linking Treasure Tuesday 

Nyah West Murray River for Sunday Best and Scenic Sunday

 

In Nyah, Victoria, the Murray River often remains undisturbed by visitors. I relish the earthy aroma that permeates this serene part of inland Victoria.

Sony A7RV

FE 20-70mm f4 G

Linking Sunday Best and Scenic Sunday